


Revenant

by the_pale_rider



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Death Guard, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6642427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pale_rider/pseuds/the_pale_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Death Guard legionary is inducted into the silent elite of his Legion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Pain.

It threatened to overwhelm him. His vison darkened, sounds became dull and distant. His flawed helmet display told him his armour integrity was compromised, breached and prised open by xenos claws. The same claws had torn through his fused ribcage and pierced his primary heart. The second was working hard to maintain blood flow. Adrenaline, combat stims and pain nullifiers burned in his veins. The hyper coagulants had sealed the flesh wounds but internally, his enhanced physiology was struggling to repair the damage. 

His brothers were dead, overrun and hacked apart by screeching tides of aliens. He was alone, barely conscious and surrounded. Cycling through the vox channels for updates on the other companies deployed, his only reply was hissing static.

_No_ , he thought. He would not succumb. He would fight until he fell.

Hauling himself to his feet, grunting in pain, he levelled his bolt pistol and blasted the head off a shrieking alien leaping towards him. More charged towards him. His chainsword had been lost; a simple combat knife would have to suffice. Dropping the pistol and drawing the serrated monomolecular blade, he barrelled into the oncoming tide.

He plunged the blade into the neck of one creature, black ichor spraying him. Snarling, he sawed it across the throat and wrenched it out. The xenos boiled around him in a blur of claws and snapping teeth. Chunks of ceramite were torn from his battleplate, drawing blood across his arms and chest. Catching one by its ridged head crest with his free hand, he snapped its neck whilst burying his knife in the eye of another.

Suddenly, the booming roar of bolter fire tore through the hordes of aliens, shredding their ranks. Through the smoke, serried ranks of Astartes marched forward, cutting down the enemies of Mankind with bolter and blade. At their head strode a giant, hooded and cloaked. The Lantern blazed in the hazy gloom, bright energy blasts reducing scores of aliens to blackened husks. Silence rose and fell in grim strokes, contemptuously hacking down any who got near.

His armour was a shattered wreck, splattered with alien blood and viscera. Its servos growled when he moved, struggling to mimic his movements. The power plant was failing, his armour’s dead weight rendering him near immobile. Deep wounds in his abdomen still bled, the iron rich tang mixing with the foul stench of alien fluids, fyceline and burning meat. He sank to his knees, unable to stand. He roared his defiance, the sound echoing inside his helm.

_I will not give in. There is nothing the Death Guard can’t overcome. Pain is an illusion._

The Primarch approached silently as his sons continued exterminating the xenos. His amber eyes seemed to glow beneath his cowl, boring into him. Curling vapours hissed from his rebreather mask. Gases taken from his homeworld. He could smell Barbarus, the sharp tang reminding him of the brooding mountains, dense forest and fog wreathed valleys.

Darkness returned, despite his efforts. Before he succumbed, he heard the hoarse whisper of his father’s voice.

“Take him.”


	2. II

He awoke to the faint buzzing of overhead lumens and the sharp tang of chemicals. Sitting upright, he winced at the bite of his wounds. Lengths of synth skin covered his arms and chest, adding to the latticework of scars already winding across his body. Glancing around, he saw he was in a deserted apothercarion. His only companions were servitors, slaved the command wafers inserted into their lobotomised brains. He must have been brought aboard one of the Legion’s ships to recover. He swung his legs over the gurney, grunting as the synth skin pulled tight. 

“Remain seated,” a voice intoned from the darkness. 

His head snapped round, trying to the pinpoint the speaker’s location. In the far corner, the shadows shifted and something detached itself from the darkness. A titanic figure armoured in pale warplate edged with brass, pitted with rust and grime. A tattered shroud hung from his shoulders. Yellowed eyes glinted from beneath his hood, his nose and mouth hidden by an archaic rebreather mask and numerous feeder pipes. 

“I have chosen you, my son,” his father continued. “You alone survived where your brothers did not. You refused to succumb. Defiance burns within you. Defiance and the will to fight, no matter what it may cost you.” 

He paused, the harsh rasp of his rebreather mask filling the silence.

“You will be inducted into the Deathshroud. You will leave your name, rank and Company behind. You will be one of the silent wardens of myself and the chosen commanders of the Legion.”

He paused again, as if to let him to process this news.

_How was this possible? He was a mere legionary, a simple warrior in service to his Legion and the Emperor. How could he be elevated to the elite brotherhood of the Deathshroud? ___

“Follow me.”

His father’s command cut through his whirling thoughts. He got to his feet and followed in his Primarch’s wake. A pair of Deathshroud appeared at either side, following their charge. They walked in silence, moving through the dim corridors. The ship was quiet, save for the creaks and groans echoing through its decks and the distant thrum of engines. They soon reached a series of arming posts situated on the upper decks, away from the regular chambers and duelling cages he had used to. Mortarion turned and stared down at him.

“These are reserved for the Deathshroud. None but servitors, myself and your brothers know of it. Now my son, arm yourself.”

He entered the dim chamber and saw his future. The Cataphractii pattern armour stood on a frame before him. The immense ceramite plates were the colour of pale marble, chased in dull bronze. Stepping forward, he spread his arms and allowed servitors to armour him for war. Slowly, the heavy plates were bolted into place. Flexing his gauntlet, he could already feel the slow but unstoppable power built into the servos and fibre bundles. Despite never wearing Terminator armour, hypno-conditioning implanted during the procedures that had elevated him to an Astartes gave him a basic understanding of it. Soon the only remaining piece left was the helm. One of the Deathshroud stepped forward and handed it to him without comment. Fastening the helm to the gorget, he was complete.

“It is done,” intoned his father. “Henceforth, you will never speak and never again remove your helm or armour. To be one of the Deathshroud is to relinquish your identity in service to the Legion. Your name will be added to the list of the fallen on Barbarus, along with those of your Company that fell. None will know that you survived.”

He drew another rattling breath, his rebreather hissing and clicking. Vapours curled from the censers strung across his barrel chest. His new brothers stood unmoving either side, seemingly indifferent to another joining their ranks.

“Take up your weapon,” ordered Mortarion, gesturing to the nearby weapon rack.

He strode over, adjusting to the lumbering gait of his new armour. A lone weapon stood on the rack, a power scythe head and shoulders taller than him. He nearly paused at the sight of it.

_A Manreaper. The signature weapon of his Legion, wielded only by the Deathshroud and Legion commanders who held the Primarch’s favour. ___

He took the weapon in both hands, testing its weight. Like his armour, it was heavy but well balanced. He’d had the privilege to see the Deathshroud in action during a Compliance; nothing could withstand them. Like all Death Guard, they were implacable and promised only death to their foes.

“You will report to my quarters tomorrow,” rasped his father and without another word, he turned and left him with his new brothers.


End file.
